


Not It

by Hambone



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Egg Laying, Humiliation, In Public, Knotting, Not Happy, Other, Spines, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, beastiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker discovers the only place he feels safe has some dangers of it's own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beggining

**Author's Note:**

> Commission number 2 for abucketofprotons! Hope you like it.

“…It’s not that weird, is it?”

Bob chirred, nuzzling against Sunstreaker’s stomach happily.

“I mean, it is… strange, but I’m not, I’m not a freak.”

Not having any response to that Bob did nothing but continue his rumbling, rubbing his legs up against his master’s thigh yet again. He had been doing it with increasing insistence for weeks now, and it finally spurred a quick trip to the archives for some Insecticon behavioral research. The results had been satisfying. Well, in some senses. Sunstreaker was not exactly sure how he should be feeling. He always had known he was an attractive and powerful mech, a presence in every room, even after the trials and tribulations of recent years, but to be a potential mate in the optic sensors of his faithful pet was another thing altogether.

Bob was not exactly a pet, to be fair. While he was smaller than a mech and definitely lacked the kind of dominant centralized self-awareness of a Cybertronian, he was more intelligent than he was often given credit for. He certainly understood most of what Sunstreaker said, even if he had no way to properly communicate in return. He was a companion - a strange and alien one, but a companion nonetheless. He knew what he was doing when he rubbed his legs like that, or when he snuggled up just a little too close to Sunstreaker’s aft for comfort beneath the sheets. If he had known that before, of course, Sunstreaker probably would not have self-serviced in front of him as much as he did.

And now they were here.

He flopped back on the berth, trying to subdue the strange bubbling in his gut. It was nerves, a feeling he knew intimately, but the cause was more of an issue than the symptom. Bob, the largely sentient and overly affectionate Insecticon, wanted to interface with him. for whatever reason (and there were many to pick from), he had decided Sunstreaker had what was needed to be a good partner, mate, and he was intent on getting some kind of response he could understand, however long it took. Insecticons did not have concepts such as impatience; there was only an if, not a when.

What was worse was that Sunstreaker was actually considering it. It was not something he would ever have expected to happen to him, to sink so low as to even think of such a thing. Yet, for some reason, he had not been able to shake the thought. He had not been with anybody for a while. He had not thought he would ever want to be with anybody again. Bob was not just anybody though. Sunstreaker trusted him, for what it was worth. He did not judge, he did not complain or gripe or fuss. He just was there for him, through every flashback and every nightmare, and he knew the ways to get him through them, the pressure on his chest that helped Sunstreaker come back to himself, feel normal again. As normal as he got, now.

Besides all that, Bob was warm and happy and affectionate all on his own anyways. It just seemed, somehow, like a logical step. A logical step, but perhaps in the wrong direction.

“No, Bob.”

He pushed the Insecticon away. Snuffling a bit, Bob cocked his head curiously and then immediately scuttled back onto his hip, nudging at him as if to turn him over. Knowing full well what that meant, Sunstreaker pushed him off again, worrying a lip between his teeth. Still, the little bot returned, and the buzzing inside him only grew. Nobody would know. No one ever bothered him here, not since Sideswipe went off on another slap dash adventure and left him to his own devices, literal and figurative. Besides, he was just testing the waters. It couldn’t be such a bad thing, even if Bob was not quite the same species. They were all born from the same root coding.

The insect was currently curled up at the end of the berth, watching him but finally choosing to keep his distance. Regretting being so pushy earlier, Sunstreaker whistled a high note at him.

“Bob? I’m sorry, Bob. Come here.”

Perking, Bob stared at him.

“Come on, boy, come here.”

He patted the berth lightly. Bob did not move, antenna twitching. Growing frustrated, more embarrassed than he should be, Sunstreaker nudged him with his foot.

“Come here!”

At that the Insecticon shied back a bit, not exactly hurt but certainly confused. Regretting everything, Sunstreaker flipped on to his stomach, turning away and burying his face in the berth pad. What a mistake this all was.

Then, a poke. It was so light that at first he thought he’d imagined it, but it returned just as quickly and with more force. Looking over his shoulder, Sunstreaker watched as Bob burbled a strange range of notes and pushed at his backside, glancing up for confirmation.

If he was going to do this, it had to happen before he lost his nerve.

“Y-yeah, good boy, Bob, good boy.”

He hitched his hips up. The Insecticon chirped happily, splaying his wide back legs and using the smaller pair to reach between Sunstreaker’s own thighs, spreading them open wider, arranging them. He had touched Sunstreaker with these pseudo hands before, of course, but in this context they felt so out of place, so new, that he could not help but shudder at their touch. It was a good thing, though, a wonderful thing. Bob was a fascinating creature.

Now he was humming a low, soothing note, one he often used when Sunstreaker was in one of his panics, and he realized how heavily he was ventilating and how it must seem to him. He was, he knew, in a kind of hysteria, to want this, to be doing this, but he was excited in the best of ways, in a way he had not been for what felt like eons, and he could not help but push his hips back with vigor. Bob mounted him and the hum turned into a warm vibration in every point they connected. Sunstreaker gasped, a little louder than he had meant to.

“Oh, Bob!”

The words felt blocky and strange in his mouth, this human name he had chosen almost out of irony, so alien all on its own, and he lowered his voice as best he could. No one could hear through these walls, he knew that, not after he had had them soundproofed so the night terrors wouldn’t wake the rest of the base, but Primus he was nervous. Not ashamed, just nervous. It was an interesting feeling, or lack thereof. Despite the rumors, he had mostly kept to himself all his life, before Earth. He did not like other mechs. He did not enjoy being touched.

Bob was different. He was so different.

Whining thinly behind his firmly set jaw Sunstreaker retracted his panel. He knew which side of the bargain he was on. His valve was already wet, wetter than he would have liked, perhaps, but Bob just squealed and clicked and snuffled at his back, gripping his thighs tighter.

“Come on,” he hissed, burying his face behind his arms fortress one more, “Bob, come on, please…”

Bob made a soothing noise, another, deeper hum, but he did not comply. Not yet, but he did begin to rub small patters with his arms against Sunstreaker’s plating, as if both testing and soothing. There were tiny, almost invisible bristles on his plating, and when he touched him now they seemed to be clinging more than usual, alive with some unknown agenda. It tickled and he arched away from it a bit, frowning deeply to keep himself from making noise. The heat behind him was making his valve involuntarily squeeze and he was becoming more impatient than he could deal with.

“Bob!”

Finally, although not likely spurred on by his yelling, something thick and warm pressed between his legs. It was not a normal spike, Sunstreaker could feel that, but it was still so good to be close to, so unexpectedly potent of a rush, that he moaned regardless. It was wider than he’d expected, ridged wonderfully, and there was something else, some sort of prickle every now and then, and he was trying to get ahold of himself long enough to recognize what it was when Bob pulled back, still snuffling, and then something sharp and hot pushed against his valve lips. He bucked back, trying to get more of it, but Bob moved with him, insistent at taking things at his own pace.

It was as though he was waiting for something, or testing something. Sunstreaker realized the arms he was holding himself up on were shaking, that he was panting, even though nothing had breached him yet. A small caress along the outer fold of his valve made him whine embarrassingly and he bit the sheets. The spike moved a little closer to being inside him, Bob humming louder.

“Bob,” he whispered, “Bob, be a good boy, please Bob, good boy, please…”

It was closer to a sob than he would have liked. Bob made a sound of worry and then he was being gripped harder than before, hard enough to almost hurt, and with a satisfying swiftness he was penetrated fully. Sunstreaker threw his helm back, still clenching the sheets between his teeth and tearing at them with his fingers. Bob’s spike was huge, or maybe it had just been so long for him that he’d forgotten what hugeness was, but it filled him so completely and so well that for a moment he thought he had lost his mind. Every node seemed to be being rubbed, every caliper shaking, the anterior extending back as far as it could to hold its girth as the head of Bob’s spike nipped at the entrance to his gestation tank. Bliss. After so much pain he could only find this as bliss.

Bob chirped excitedly, drawing his hips back at once. It was then that Sunstreaker realized what the prickle had been; spines, stiff and rubbery, lining the length of his pet’s plug, concentrated around the back of the head, grasped at his lining with sharp teeth. It hurt and he scrambled as if to get away from it, mindless at first, dropping the berth pad from his mouth to make a panicked garble of noise. Bob was cooing calmingly at him but he was suddenly gripped by a fear and he wanted it out, out, this had been a mistake and Bob needed to _get out of him-!_

The Insecticon slammed back inside and he dropped forward again, knees failing as a hot course of pleasure shocked through him so powerfully his optics glitched. Then he was drawing out again and the pain was there and it hurt, it _hurt_ but –but something about it also triggered a response in his programming so primitive and deep he wasn’t sure it had existed before. Bob’s heavy weight settled on his back as his struggles ceased slowly, Sunstreaker flattening himself into the berth aside from where Bob held him and freezing there. Stay still, his instincts told him, submit. Every tug on his lining ached but his calipers fluttered for it, pressing down as if trying to hold his spike stable and making every node light up with charge. Bob’s chitters were a source of comfort again, the world softening into the pastels he was comfortable with.

“B-B-ahh-!”

He couldn’t get his vocalizer to form words, his tongue flapping uselessly in his jaws. Bob, ever loyal, knew what he needed anyhow and pounded him harder, gripping so tightly he was sure little flecks of his golden paint would be missing, that he would have purple and black smears along his back he would have no way of accounting for if anyone else saw them. He could hardly care; his mind was so far gone that the only thing if importance now was more. He was leaking, maybe more than he should have been, and though Bob supported him well he could feel his knees slipping as his own lubricant slicked the sheets. Strutless, he begged.

Bob’s panting was getting louder, harder, and Sunstreaker realized that his own voice had gone ragged with whining. His overload was coming fast, too fast, and he squeezed down harder, pushing for it. There was no game for dominance, no attempt to draw out the natural process. Bob pistioned into him like a jackhammer and Sunstreaker curled himself into the flat berth, overloading hard. There was a gush of fluid, not entirely his, and he wriggled as Bob continued to press into him, rutting faster still. It pushed him into yet another, smaller spasm, pleasure making him blind, and he wailed into the padding in a manner so undignified it would have mortified him to hear.

As the charge began to wind down, his systems having had more fluxuations in them than he had experienced in years, Bob continued to frag him. Sunstreaker grunted, flattening his body, but his pet did not seem to be tiring in the slightest. Without the added luster of impending overload it was beginning to become incredibly uncomfortable. Reaching back he pushed limped at Bob’s knee, warbling into the berth.

“Bob,” he mumbled, “get off.”

Bob did not seem to hear him, pounding away with the same intensity as before. A little charge was building again but it was itchy and uncomfortable. Sunstreaker pushed more insistently, turning his helm to the side so as to be better heard.

“Bob…”

No response. He wanted to be angry but he supposed it wasn’t fair to the little bug to have begged an overload and then no let him enjoy one of his own. But it was taking so long and his spike was so painful when not inducing that strut melting pleasure that had made him as limp as this…

With a sudden full body quiver Bob froze, completely silent, and then Sunstreaker felt a rush of fluid inside him. Praise Primus below. But the fluid did not stop after the initial rush, nor did Bob release him. Something shifted inside his valve and Sunstreaker yelped, trying to tug away again. Bob’s spike was swelling, it felt like, pushing his already straining calipers beyond normal capacity. He jerked and tried to pull away but Bob was somehow heavier and stronger than he had even been before, fastened tightly around his middle, chirping indignantly.

“Wh- Bob! Stop it!”

It didn’t seem the Insecticon could at this point. Something thick surged within him again and Sunstreaker realized, with an almost detached kind of embarrassment, that he’d been knotted. For how long, he had no idea. Not the best way to have ended this. On top of that the fluid was still coming, trapped by the stretch around his entrance, and his gestation tank felt fit to burst. He knew it was probably showing a bit, that it was stretching the plating on his stomach outwards, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

It was alright though. Without the movement it no longer agitated him, and the hum of residual charge swirling in his distended belly, while not comfortable, was not exactly anything he couldn’t live with for a few more kliks. After all, Bob’s knot would eventually go down and he could go empty all this yuck into the drain of his suit’s wash rack. He had plenty of supplies and paint available, as always. He would be shiny and perfect again soon enough. And, on top of that, he was no longer feeling as desperate and needy as he had been. This was the best kind of overload; the kind without judgment attached.

He let himself breathe, calming a bit. Nobody knew. Nobody _would_ know. He was alright. He was safe. Bob would keep his secret like the good little companion he was. Sighing as the Insecticon settled down, considerably happier without his master’s squirming, Sunstreaker reach back again, this time to pat at Bob’s knee instead of push.

“Good boy, Bob. Good, good boy.”

Bob purred.


	2. End

He was not feeling well, and he had not been for a while. This wasn’t exactly unusual, but the stomach aches were new. At first it had just been right after a round with Bob, when he was bloated and a little ashamed of himself, but usually a quick trip to rinse himself out had taken care of that, and Bob had been more than willing to snuggle up to him while he slept or read after and things would eventually lighten.

Sunstreaker crouched in the wash rack hissing uncomfortably as he let the petals of his valve cover spiral open again. He had learned that it was better to simply close them as soon as Bob was done with him or he’d have a hell of a mess on the berth and floor to deal with. Pressing the heel of his palm to his lower abdomen, Sunstreaker bit his lip and tried not to moan as the excess fluid poured out of him. It was disgusting, and he was slightly unnerved by the fact that it was also edged with pleasure. However, as it drained from him the odd pressure did not, and the feeling of a bitter discomfort remained as it had the past few weeks now. Even as he gingerly aimed the shower head at himself and began the laborious process of flushing out any evidence from his insides, Sunstreaker began to realize that something was definitely wrong with him.

That was a problem. A big one. He hadn’t expected there to be any side effects from fragging Bob, other than his own personal shame. Insecticons were not really creatures to be experimented on. He realized, a little too late for his vanity’s sake, that he had no idea if the Insecticon transfluid was even safe to ingest like this, and with that dawned a whole new cluster of paranoid thoughts. For all he knew Bob could have been slowly melting a hole in his gestation tank.

As if on cue the little beast nudged his way past the wash rack door, warbling curiously. Sunstreaker sighed, still rubbing his gut.

“Hey buddy.”

Bob pressed his nose into Sunstreaker’s hand, as if recognizing his pain, and his antenna swiveled back.

“It’s not your fault. I know you didn’t mean to make me feel bad.”

He patted the bot’s head and stared at the pale tiles. He needed to get this checked out. It wasn’t likely Ratchet would be able to tell what had caused the injury without being prompted. Sunstreaker considered, for a moment, not doing anything at all and just hoping it would go away, but another hot surge of discomfort in his lower regions made him grit his teeth in pain. Bob whined.

“It’s okay. I’m fine. Just gotta… go see Ratch, I guess.”

He wrinkled his nose a bit. He was not at all ready for this.

Neither was Ratchet.

“…you think you damaged yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Sunstreaker shrugged one shoulder, attempting to pass as nonchalant. Ratchet knew better. He always did. Sunstreaker tried to avoid him at all costs normally.

“Well. Get on the berth then, and open up.”

He gestured to the corner where the only berth with a modesty curtain was. It was annoying, and shameful, but there was no one else in the halls or the clinic so he swallowed his revulsion and put his feet in the stirrups, crossing his arms over his chest moodily. Bob, who had come with him, circled the base of the chairs nervously, taking in all the smells and sounds of the med bay. He would normally have never been allowed inside but ratchet had long ago come to recognize his importance to Sunstreaker’s health and given up that battle. There were some merits to his perceptiveness, Sunstreaker supposed bitterly.

After positioning the curtain, Ratchet pulled up a stool, fiddling with a few lights and tools. It was all too slow and Sunstreaker just wanted to get out of this unflattering lighting and back into his nice, normal life. He shifted as another bout of pain nearly winded him but managed to hold in the grunt that came with it.

“How long’s that been happening?”

Ratchet gestured to where his crossed arms had moved to shield his gut.

“I’m not sure. A few solar cycles.”

Sunstreaker wouldn’t look at him.

“It wasn’t that bad until today. Thought I was just processing a rough bit of fuel.”

Ratchet made a soft noise of disbelief.

“But now you think it’s in your gestation tank?”

Lying wasn’t going to do him any favors here. Deciding that he should reveal as much as possible without giving away exactly what it was he had done, Sunstreaker pushed himself to sit a little straighter and meet Ratchet’s optics.

“Look, I haven’t interfaced in a few hundred years, and I haven’t self-serviced since I got this new frame. A few weeks ago I started doing it again and it was only a little after that this started so…” he raised his hands in exasperation and lay back again. Ratchet considered.

“What exactly were you doing?”

“Is that really necessary? Really?”

Sunstreaker bristled. Ratchet looked as though he were going to make a nasty comment but a soft growling from beneath the berth drew his attention. Bob was chittering his teeth together, optics flared a bright yellow as he arched defensively. Sunstreaker’s hand flew down to calm him but ratchet was already too annoyed to care much, picking up a speculum.

“The pain is all internal?”

“Yeah,” Sunstreaker stroked the top of Bob’s head, almost managing a smile as the Insecticon pushed into his touch happily, “all up in here. None of my actual, my valve hurts, really.”

Wiping a clear lubricant over his fingers, Ratchet gently tested around the outside before sliding one in. his touch was cold and clinical and Sunstreaker had to bite his lip to remind himself not to pull back. Bob growled again.

“Hush.”

Ratchet poked and prodded his insides, still a little raw from Bob’s last coupling.

“None of this hurts?”

“I already told you, no.”

Growing more irritable by the nano-klik, Sunstreaker pet Bob’s head harder. Ratchet grumbled but said nothing, drawing back and applying some lubricant to the speculum.

“Alright, this is gonna feel a bit weird.”

It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, likely because he was rather used to getting stretched out at this point. He did grimace as yet another wave of pain hit him, but it was over quickly. They had been coming more rapidly since this morning and now it was almost every klik. Ratchet’s optics narrowed and he said nothing, scrutinizing. It felt wrong to be as open like this. Maybe once upon a time he could have at least taken comfort in the attention but now he just wanted to leave. Picking up a small swab, ratchet poked inside him, making him jump as the rim of his gestational valve cover was brushed gently.

“I’m gonna need to look a bit deeper.”

Nodding, Sunstreaker looked down at Bob, who was making an odd stirring sound. It was not the same defensive growling s before, but it did not sound particularly happy either, and he had never heard this exact set of whirrs and clicks before. The Insecticon grasped at his fingers with his tiny secondary claws, chirping insistently.

“Not now,” he hissed, then bit his lip as another wave hit right when Ratchet’s tool began to poke the latch on his inner seals. Ratchet pulled back.

“Sunstreaker, this is-”

The moment he had brushed the seal something inside Sunstreaker had started turning, and now, as another rush of feeling pushed into him, he felt something break. He gasped, almost jumping from the chair, and Ratchet jumped back as a rush of fluid spilled down between them, the speculum only assisting in his sudden evacuation. Mortified, Sunstreaker looked as his own stretched valve rim, the mystery liquid continuing to sputter out in little rushes from his gestational tank.

“I-I-!”

Bob was excited. He ran around to the front of the berth, propping his front legs on the stirrup by Sunstreaker’s left leg and looking up at him. Ratchet reached forward to try and pull him out of the way.

“Sunstreaker, you told me you hadn’t interfaced with anyone lately.”

He sounded almost angry. The pressure inside Sunstreaker had not acted with the break, only begun to move, and he lurched forward, tugging at the speculum.

“G-get this out!”

Before ratchet could even decide what to do Sunstreaker found the manual release and pulled the device away himself, immediately throwing it away without care for its integrity and trying to stand.

“Sit down! You don’t understand what is happening, do you?”

Ignoring him, Sunstreaker got to his feet, holding onto the berth as another gush of liquid poured out between his thighs. There was something almost solid about it this time, the fluid becoming gummy and viscous and trailing down in long, gooey strings. Revolted, he stepped back, only to fall to his knees.

“What’s going- why aren’t you helping me?”

He was angry because he was frightened. Ratchet did move then, kneeling beside him, but Bob was there first, pushing insistently into his stomach as he made the same hum, trying to knock Sunstreaker onto his back.

“No- Bob, no!”

The solid mass inside him pushed and slid and he realized, in true horror, that somehow his systems were warming with arousal, as if through some buried program and not his own will. He groaned, helm falling back, and Bob took the opportunity to push at him again until he was half lying on the ground, nuzzling at his stomach. His calipers flexed and the pressure was in his valve, not quite as big as Bob’s spike, not quite big enough to be anything but a confusing mixture of pleasure and disgust and discomfort.

Ratchet was watching him, writhing around the floor in his own fluids. He wanted to say something, to beg for some kind of help, but then he saw the way Ratchet was frowning, the way his optics lingered on Bob.

“You did it, didn’t you.”

It was not a question. Sunstreaker flinched, then gasped, entire body trembling as the object within him pushed forward. Another dollop of stringy goo pushed out of him and he moaned pitifully.

“R-Ratchet…”

“You told me you hadn’t interfaced in a while, but you did, didn’t you. You fragged that Insecticon.”

His lips turned up in a mixture of horror and disgust.

“You fragged your damned pet.”

He didn’t know what to say. Even if he hadn’t been shuddering through another powerful wave of what was all too quickly turning into desperate arousal he wouldn’t have been able to reply.

Ratchet knew.

He _knew._

“How did you get in so deep, kid?”

Ratchet reached out to him but Sunstreaker pulled away sharply, grunting in upset. A small trail of drool was beginning to trace the contour of his jaw, as pathetic and disgusting as the rest of him. Bob growled at Ratchet again, snapping at him.

Then his calipers gave another, wild push and the object inside him breathed the air, just barely peeking between his valve lips. It was smooth and round but a nasty black color, like a dead thing. Seeing it, Sunstreaker almost gagged in revulsion. He hadn’t asked for this.

“It’s, it’s not,” Ratchet was looking for words, “slag, Sunstreaker, it’s an egg. That thing- Bob’s been layin’ eggs in you.”

Sunstreaker could hardly comprehend the words. Eggs. Bob had laid eggs in him. That pushing, the extra fluid. Oh, oh no. his shuddering breathes turned to sobs as Bob made and excited trill, squirming beneath his semi-raised leg to observe his valve up close, the progression of the foul thing as it spread his lips wide and then plopped in a stream of fluid onto the floor. His valve ached with pleasure. He wanted to die.

Ratchet was able to successfully retrieve it without being bitten; Bob too determined to stay by Sunstreaker’s hip to go after him.

“It’s dead.”

Ratchet held it to Sunstreaker but he looked away, shuttering hi optics. He didn’t want to see the results of his own perversions. He hadn’t thought it would go this far. He was _disgusting_ and Ratchet _knew_.

“It’s for the better.”

Ratchet’s voice was hard, even if he was trying to be helpful.

“You aren’t compatible. You aren’t even the same species.”

_You’re filth._

More was pushing out from inside him, he could feel them bulging and crushing against one another. As the next one pushed his valve lips out he moaned again and this time there was no hiding his need. Ratchet pulled away from him, looking around as if he needed something to do, but there was nothing that could distract from what was happening right before his optics, on the medical clinic’s floor like some dirty animal. Sunstreaker sobbed again when Bob’s tongue began to lap at the top of his valve, coaxing the egg from within. His external node felt so swollen. He could feel Ratchet’s gaze heavy on his back and still he wanted to reach down between his legs and touch himself, ease the passing, overload. He wanted to vomit. Bob licked at him harder and the egg shuddered out, sickeningly wet, squelching.

He pushed his heels against the ground, urging Bob on. He was already too far gone. Ratchet knew everything. What did he have to be ashamed of, now. Reaching down he pinched his nub, moaning, drooling on his chest as the position tilted his hip up. Another egg was pushing its way out and Bob squealed and Sunstreaker rolled his optics back and, under Ratchet’s hard stare, overloaded.

His life was over.


End file.
